“I’ll ride out that way.” “You won’t find him,” Red said. “He’s prowling around up the canyon. I saw him going into the old discovery tunnel.” Ben Stowe’s features stiffened, and the hand that held the fork gripped hard. But when he spoke, his voice was casual.
“How long ago was that?” “Long as it took me to ride in. I came right along.” “Thanks, Red. You hang around town, d’you hear? I might need you.” When Red had gone, Ben Stowe put his fork down slowly. His appetite was gone completely.
He had been a fool to allow Shevlin to go to work up there, but Clagg Merriam had said there was nothing to worry about. Working for Burt Parry would keep him out of trouble, and nobody ever saw anything that was right under their nose, anyway.
It had seemed a good idea at the time. Maybe it was still a good idea.
He had planned to offer Shevlin the place Gentry had held; now he was not so sure. It was unlikely that Shevlin would find anything; and if he did, they might still make a deal. But why was Shevlin nosing around? What was he looking for? And where was Burt Parry?
It would not do to move hastily, and above all, Red’s suspicions must not be aroused. Of course, he had told Red he would ride out and talk to Shevlin, and so he would. There are some things a man had better do himself.
He forced himself to eat a little more, and to take his time over another cup of coffee.
What he did within the next few hours could mean the difference between success and failure, between wealth and poverty, even between life and death.
For the first time in his life he felt haunted by uncertainties. His life until this minute had been relatively simple, but within a matter of days, hours even, the certainties had vanished.
With Gib Gentry’s death, the keystone of his plan was gone. He had come to despise Gentry, but the man had been essential to their plan, with the freighting company carefully set up for the purpose. His death, through Lon Court’s mistake, left a gaping hole in the carefully planned structure.
And that girl at Doc Clagg’s–whicho was she?
What was she?
Irritation mounted within him, an irritation that was born of panic, a panic he stifled. There was no reason to get stirred up. First, he must find Mike Shevlin, find out how much he knew, and whether or not he would go along with Ben Stowe.
Thinking of Shevlin’s suggestion that Stowe ride out of town to see him, he swore bitterly, hating the idea of approaching Shevlin with a proposition. Unfortunately, he knew of nobody else who might get that gold safely to its destination, nobody at all.
He had an uneasy feeling that things were getting out of hand, yet, despite the unfortunate killing of Eve Bancroft, nothing really seemed amiss that couldn’t be taken care of.
Ray Hollister was out of it… he was finished. Ben Stowe should have been pleased about that, but Hollister had been a gathering point for his enemies. As long as Hollister was around, Stowe had always known where the cattlemen would be.
He went now to the livery stable, strolling casually along the street. He wanted his manner to be remembered: he was a man going for a little ride after lunch, something he had done occasionally over the years. That he was going to win an ally or kill a man before the day was over was something nobody must guess.
Brazos was not at the stable. Ben Stowe had grown accustomed to service, and he disliked saddling his own horse. Irritably, he saddled up, led the horse outside, and stepped into the saddle.
Where was that damned hostler, anyway?
At that very moment Brazos was seated in the kitchen of Dr. Clagg’s home with a shotgun across his knees, and close at hand, a Winchester .44. He had been recruited by Clagg as a guard for Laine Tennison.
In Clagg’s office several patients had arrived for consultation. Billy Townsend, owner of the Blue Horn Saloon, James Martin Field, editor and publisher of the Rafter Blade, and Tom Hayes, who operated a general store, were all there. There were several others, chosen with care.
Clagg was speaking to them.
“We will waste no time arguing about the past.
What remains is to see what possibilities are open to us now. If any of you have any doubts as to the purpose of our meeting, it is just this: to consider the state of affairs in Rafter as of this minute.
“A young woman, a well-known and generally respected owner of a ranch, has been shot down on the streets of Rafter. Gib Gentry, a businessman of this town, has been murdered just outside it. A notorious killer, imported for what reason we do not know, has been slain in the hills nearby. These killings have all happened in the last few days.” Hayes shifted uncomfortably, and sweat began to bead his forehead.
“We have a marshal with an excellent reputation,” Dr. Clagg went on, “but he is also a marshal who is willing to go along with what the townspeople accept, and within those limits, to keep the peace. That has been the customary practice in most western communities.
It remains to be seen whether that is sufficient here.” The outer door opened and closed, then the door to the inner office opened, and Laine Tennison stood there. “Rupert,” she said abruptly, “I believe this meeting concerns me. I wish to join it.” “I was expecting you,” Clagg said. “I told Dottie to let you know what was happening.
Will you sit down?” Tom Hayes started to get up, then sat down again. “Now look, Doc,” he protested, “I ain’t sure I want to get mixed up in this.
Things have been going along pretty good, and–was “Hold your horses, Tom,” Billy Townsend said easily. “You just set still and listen to what the Doc has to say. He looks to me like a man with ideas.” Hayes glanced around uneasily, but sat back in his chair. “What about her?” he grumbled. “What’s that girl doin’ in here?” Laine turned on him coolly. “I am here because I have a bigger stake in this than any of you.
I own the mines–butoth of them.” All eyes turned toward her and she colored a little, her chin lifting.
“That’s right, gentlemen,” Clagg said.
“Miss Tennison has another distinction. She is the niece of Eli Patterson, the man whose murder started all this.” Hayes started at the word “murder,” then he relaxed.
“We are here to make a decision,” Clagg said. “Do we wish to continue to live upon the proceeds of crime and murder, to rear our families in an atmosphere of the acceptance of crime, getting in deeper and deeper each day; or are we going to make a break with the past and demand that this town be cleaned up?” Billy Townsend crossed one knee over the other, and said, “If we start cleaning up this town, a lot of people are going to get hurt.” Laine Tennison spoke up sharply.
“Gentlemen, let me tell you this: somebody is going to get hurt anyway. My attorneys have drafted a letter to the governor–I believe he is Jack Moorman’s son-in-law–asking that a special officer be appointed to bring law and order to Rafter. I have requested a complete investigation.” She paused, looking slowly around the room.
“I have requested an investigation into the stealing of gold, and also as to the identity of those who have been receiving the stolen goods.” There was a stir of apprehension in the room, but she added, “However, I have no wish to bring trouble to anybody else if I can convict those responsible and recover my gold.” “That’s fair,” Townsend said.
“Prosecutin’ is one thing,” Hayes said, “convictin’ is another. Anyway, who is goin’ to be the one to roust that outfit out of here?” “If he is told to do it by the townspeople, and if he has support, I think Wilson Hoyt will do it.” “He’ll try,” Townsend agreed.
“He’s only one man,” Hayes said, “only one man against that bunch of fighters Ben Stowe has imported. Why, half of those miners are no more miners than you or me. They’re pistol-men from Texas or wherever.” “Gentlemen,” Clagg said dryly, “if we vote to act now, I shall myself walk beside Hoyt.” They looked at him in surprise, all but Townsend. “I run a saloon, and the money has been good. All the same, I’ve known it was the wrong way to run a town. Doc, when you walk out there with Hoyt, I’ll be right alongside of you.” “Good,” Clagg said. “I had an idea that’s where you’d be, Billy.” “And me too,” Fields said. “I haven’t shot a rifle since the War Between the States, but I’ve got a mighty good shotgun.” Tom Hayes got up quickly. “You’re a pack of fools!” he exclaimed angrily.